Respect
by Eloquent Quill
Summary: So much depends on respect - what if the events of Tango had shifted so that Connie does not feel taken advantage of? Mike/Connie


Mike slowly walked down the steps of the courthouse, brow deeply furrowed. A gust of wind whipped at his cheeks, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets in response. It was at times like this, times of relative peace, when he thought of the little irritations that came with the workplace. Today, for some inexplicable reason, his mind kept flicking to a nagging discomfort in the back of his mind.

That man! Juror number eight. Mike shook his head and rubbed his forehead. Why did he have to think of someone so wholly unconnected with him when he should be eating dinner? The looks of frank admiration and most likely of sly schemes made his stomach clench in a way he felt it shouldn't. Connie had felt flattered! – _flattered_ of all things when receiving an e-mail that should have made her immediately suspect foul play. Yet the worst of it was that he couldn't understand why he did not insist that juror number eight be removed from the jury.

Mike swallowed and tried to remove the feeling of unease that settled stubbornly in his gut. His personal, unbiased (or so he convinced himself) opinion was that the man was a slimeball. Someone of two times his character didn't deserve Connie's good opinion.

He strode briskly down the street, head down, unaware of other New Yorkers that surrounded him.

"Great performance in court today." A man's voice, the words dangerously familiar.

Some jumbled words reached Mike above the New York City traffic. He looked up, then heard, "Excuse me, sir, but this is extremely inappropriate."

Connie. The briefcase, scarf, coat, the back of her head were familiar to him. It couldn't have been another. She looked perfectly in control, yet Mike could see from her stiff posture that she was uncomfortable and aware of the seriousness of the man's infraction.

He quickly walked up behind her, standing menacingly, though seemingly at ease, at her elbow, glaring at the man who had just begun to express an unforgivable opinion about Connie's figure. Campbell stopped mid-word and cleared his throat uneasily. "Excuse me," he mumbled.

Connie turned, surprised yet relieved, to see her rescuer, but stiffened when she saw who it was. This could be a serious blight on her reputed integrity as a lawyer if Mike refused to believe her version of the story. He was, after all, her superior. He was watching Campbell's retreating back with narrowed eyes until it turned around a corner.

"Mike-" she began uneasily.

"I take it he approached you?" he cut in, bringing his eyes to meet hers sharply.

"Yes." Connie frowned – she had not believed that Mike had such implicit trust in her.

"You're all right?"

"Yes."

He placed a hand on her back and guided her through the walkers who threatened to run them over. "Good job," he said suddenly. "You handled it well."

Connie stared at him in disbelief. "How do you know that?"

"I heard most of your conversation," he replied. "But I didn't really need to – I know you well enough to know you wouldn't do such a thing."

Connie looked ahead steadily. "Thank you," she said evenly. "You saved me a lot of trouble."

Connie couldn't even begin to explain the sudden change in Mike, the sudden concern. She'd always taken him to be a more reckless version of Hang 'Em High Jack McCoy, but was pleased to see that she was wrong.

"Should I go to the judge or leave it?" she asked nervously. "We've at least got to tell Jack."

"We can do that tomorrow. It's you're call - you're the one who could have been hurt in the process."

Connie's esteem of him heightened. "I think I'll let it go this time. It'll help our chances with the jury." She frowned thoughtfully. "It would have been different if I hadn't known about this, though. I'd have felt as if I was being taken advantage of."

They continued down the street, strolling by New York standards as the light gradually faded.

"Come on," he said quickly when the silence reached an awkward length. "I would still like you to do Melinda's cross tomorrow, if you're comfortable with it. She needs a woman she knows she can't push around to examine her." He paused. "I know a quiet cafe – we can go there to prepare." He glanced at her. "Would you mind?"

Keenly aware of his hand, warm on her back and his piercing gaze, she flushed visibly. "No, not at all," she answered with unusual warmth in her voice. "You're sure?"

"Of course. I have absolute faith in your abilities."

"That'd be great, then." Connie felt comfortable with Mike. He was interesting to work with – more quirky than McCoy. She enjoyed the easy camaraderie they had developed in such a short period of time and was glad that he respected her. With him, she felt that she was more than an extension to an already established reputation – she was someone special, even.

"I can't believe a juror was sending me such inappropriate e-mails," she exclaimed once again. "It was expressly forbidden."

"That's why we're in business," he replied. "Murder is expressly forbidden, too, isn't it?" As an afterthought he added lightly, "though I must completely agree with what he said."

"You're kidding," she laughed delightedly.

"No I'm not," he said seriously as he held the door open to the cafe. Light streamed out onto the street from the brightly lit entrance. Before she entered, she turned to him briefly.

"You know, Mike," she said, "You might still have a chance."

His eyes flicked to her face. "A chance for what?" he asked warily.

"Oh, I don't know," she answered vaguely. "I'm a lot more open-minded about people than I was in that picture five years ago." She nodded seriously and vanished into the cafe.

Mike stood by the door for a few moments after she went in. He chuckled and followed Connie, eyes alight with hope.


End file.
